September 13, 2007
Fictional Fiction
I’ve been thinking about fictional books lately, and of course I’m not the only one. There’s a whole wikipedia page devoted to them (and of course there is). But fictional books have been turning up in my life awfully frequently lately– The Blind Assassin by Laura Chase, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Nikolai Mayevskyj, Briony Tallis’s Atonement, the Great Expections as retold by Matilda and Mr Watts, My Thyme is Up by Reta Winters. I do believe Mr. Ramsay had written a book to prove he’d reached the letter Q, but I don’t think I know its title.
Please pardon the obscure references (but full points to whoever can get them!). Do note, however, that these are only the fictional books found in books I’ve read since the beginning of August. And I haven’t even started on The Raw Shark Texts, which are primarily constructed of such things. Is there something strange going on here?
Now I understand that the ubiquity could have something to do with the books I choose, and my affinity for books about people who write. But sometimes fictional books do turn up in the oddest places. Some have also had profound effects upon me. And which especially, you may ask? The best fictional book I’ve never read would have be Lo, the Flat Hills of my Homeland by none other than A. Mole. And I am also quite fond of Anne Shirley’s short story “Averil’s Atonement”, though of course its commercial nature put me off a bit in the end.
September 12, 2007
My Mother's Daughter by Rona Maynard
It’s not clear to me why I wanted to read former Chatelaine editor Rona Maynard’s new memoir My Mother’s Daughter. I am hardly the target demographic and I often have problems with memoirs– usually that they fail to be Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood. But Maynard was familiar to me– she and Sally Armstrong, whose letters would grace the magazines that came into our house while I was growing up. I was also intrigued to discover that her sister was Joyce Maynard, she of the controversial memoir and JD Salinger fame.
And so I read My Mother’s Daughter, Maynard’s account of her relationship with her difficult mother. Though I found their relationship less interesting than their respective experiences as women in the twentieth century. Their struggles are not those I would identify with (Maynard’s mother had to leave her job as an academic when she became pregnant; the conflict Maynard faced as a working mom) but that lack of identification is the very point. It’s important that women my age know what not to take for granted.
Maynard’s family dynamics were more difficult to read about– references to her sister as “The Adorable One” were a bit painful, and I’m not sure if they was supposed to be. Further, the episodic nature of the work meant that parts of the story felt glossed over. But Maynard is a really wonderful writer, deft with prose, and her life has been inherently interesting (if not always where she thinks it should be). I enjoyed reading this book, and I imagine fans of Maynard’s Chatelaine work will find much with which they can identify.
September 12, 2007
I made a pie instead
The Poet’s Occasional Alternative — by Grace Paley
I was going to write a poem
I made a pie instead it took
about the same amount of time
of course the pie was a final
draft a poem would have had some
distance to go days and weeks and
much crumpled paper
the pie already had a talking
tumbling audience among small
trucks and a fire engine on
the kitchen floor
everybody will like this pie
it will have apples and cranberries
dried apricots in it many friends
will say why in the world did you
make only one
this does not happen with poems
because of unreportable
sadness I decided to
settle this morning for a re-
sponsive eatership I do not
want to wait a week a year a
generation for the right
consumer to come along
from Begin Again Collected Poems, 2000
September 12, 2007
Adoring Rosie
Rosie Little mania abounds. You might remember the rave reviews when I read it recently– and I’m not the only one. My magnificent Jennie has reported adoring it, and wishes that Rosie were her friend. And what company she’s in, as Heather Mallick read it also, reporting ” The stories are odd and witty, but have an undercurrent of pure terror. Young women will love this book, but after reading it, they may not want to go outside.”
September 11, 2007
A goat with one horn sawed off
It is very nearly that time of year, better than Christmas. Indeed The Victoria College Book Sale is just around the corner, and tomorrow I am taking a suitcase full of my own books to donate. You should do the same if you are able.
I was saddened to hear of Madeleine L’Engle’s recent death. I will join the chorus of people singing about being profoundly affected by her work, in my childhood and after. I remember turning to A Swiftly Tilting Planet six years ago tomorrow, and the comfort it delivered me then. In Laurel Snyder’s Salon Tribute, she writes “To compare L’Engle’s universe to the stuff cluttering the post-Harry Potter marketplace is to compare a unicorn to a goat with one horn sawed off: real enchantment standing beside something that approximates felt hat and white rabbit magic.”
And Bookninja’s feature on empathy— it’s wonderful. Says Barbara Gowdy, ” For me, as both a writer and reader, it’s necessary maybe not to like the main character but to believe that he or she can be redeemed, whether or not that turns out to be the case”.
September 11, 2007
Blowing off dust
Today was exciting for a number of reasons: that I woke up and sat down to spend the morning working on my manuscript, which has been living under my bed since April. Had to blow off a layer of dust, but it was easy to get started, and strange to be affected by words I’d written so long ago they’ve ceased to belong to me. My goal is to finish this final revision by the end of this year, and then what’s next would, quite naturally, come with the future. Further exciting, was lunch with my old dear friend Erin Sanko who I’ve not seen in at least five years. Nice to have it feel like no time had passed, and her boyfriend is lovely. (I was also happy to hear that she had so much enjoyed Half of a Yellow Sun). I spent the afternoon shopping, for skirts, shoes, and turtleneck sweaters. Also for a new backpack, and any number of things to replace hideousness. And then I had my first visit to Ben McNally Books, which was a marvelous experience, and I had the good fortune of picking up a copy of Jonathan Garfinkel’s new book Ambivalence. It’s a beautiful book, and I am very happy for him. I also look quite forward to reading it.
September 10, 2007
Turtle Valley by G. Anderson-Dargatz
Gail Anderson-Dargatz’ latest novel Turtle Valley reminded me of Sheila Watson’s The Double Hook. No small words are these. Though their books remain worlds apart in sensibility and accessibility, Anderson-Dargatz writes similarly to Watson of desperately stunted people rendered smaller amidst a harsh and aggressive environment. She evokes the same ghostly presences, ambiguous in their nature, and she can also write downright spooky. Anderson-Dargatz’ book has far more popular appeal than Watson’s, but she practices the same art of witholding, letting what can be sensed tell the story. A quick internet search reveals that Anderson-Dargatz has been inextricably stuck with the tag Northwest Pacific Gothic, which is dramatic but makes sense to me. In tone I found Turtle Valley was also reminiscent of Eden Robinson’s Monkey Beach.
I’ve not read Gail Anderson-Dargatz’ earlier novels A Cure for Death by Lightning or A Recipe for Bees, but I do know that Turtle Valley is a descendent of the former. Beth Weeks’ daughter Kat is the subject of this new book, which takes place against the backdrop of a mass evacuation due to forest fire in BC’s interior. Kat has come with her husband and son to help her parents clear out their home before the fire comes down into their valley, and in the course of sorting through her parents’ accumulations, she discovers things about her family’s past that she never knew. History is thus disturbed, but Kat’s present is also in need of sorting, as she struggles in her relationship to husband Ezra who has become a different person since his stroke. To complicate matters further, she finds herself having feelings once again for a man from her past.
The fire metaphors are hard to resist: rekindling, old flame. Fire is pervasive throughout the text, and provides perfect imagery– particularly at the book’s conclusion. Anderson-Dargatz’ writing is strong, absolutely beautiful in spots. Her treatment of everyday objects is particularly admirable, and underlined by the photos of said objects accompanying each chapter, showing the reverence with which simple things can be treated, and the meaning that is invested in them with time. To understand Kat and her family’s history through these things is a fascinating process, and yet in the end something about it troubled me. The same thing that troubles me with any narrative in which a character finds a box of stuff that tells her all the answers. Now Kat is certainly in need of clues– her mother is entering the initial stages of dementia, her father is terminally ill– but somehow it seems too easy for her to assemble stories of such gravity. Tidiness is perhaps my most frequent gripe with fiction, and I was disappointed to have to call it here, however slightly, for a book I enjoyed so much otherwise.
September 10, 2007
En vacance!
Oh what a joy it is, not only to arrive in a brilliant city for the very first time, but to have friends there (as friends in interesting places are a most precious commodity). And how happy we were for ours, as Rebecca showed us all the best spots, as well as her new apartment with its death-defying staircases. Stuart and I got in a rather broad exploration of the city, ate all the required foodstuffs (and loved them), walked off the calories, spent a rather lazy Sunday relatively speaking, I spoke French and was understood, the train was a sweet dream as we played Tetris and read our books, our hotel was fantastic, brunch was amazing, we have bagels. Also I have the day off tomorrow, to return to my novel after four months away, have lunch with a friend I’ve not seen in years, and to buy clothes so I can work this Fall without looking like a ragamuffin.
September 7, 2007
Mini-Break
We’re on vaca for the weekend, off to Montreal. Thanks to Chapati Kid for her suggestions of what to do there, and to my other friends who offered advice. I am taking Atonement and A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian for the train, and is it strange that I am as excited about the train as I am about everything else?
September 7, 2007
If memory were a colour
“Something of my grandmother was sealed here in ink: in her careful, controlled penmanship, in the choices she made over what to set down. She had preferred a fountain pen over a ballpoint; the evidence was here, in the flow of ink from a fountain pen, as she wrote this recipe on how to preserve a rose: Dip the whole blossom and stalk in melted wax, coating completely to seal from the action of air and the passage of time. If memory were a colour, it would be this blue, the colour of the ink my grandmother used to preserve her treasured memories from the wasting effects of time.” –Gail Anderson-Dargatz, Turtle Valley
